


try and remember the summer

by darthpumpkinspice



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, M/M, Rumlow isn't a jerk, melancholy Winter Soldier, past implied Steve/Bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-07-10 16:06:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6993064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darthpumpkinspice/pseuds/darthpumpkinspice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been almost a decade since the Winter Soldier has heard the word "summer". Yet somehow he can remember it with Rumlow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	try and remember the summer

**Author's Note:**

> So I really liked the Winter Soldier/Rumlow fics, but I wanted to write one that avoided a lot of the non-con elements that are present in some of them. While there's definitely that vibe that HYDRA could probably do whatever they wanted to Bucky, that wasn't really my interpretation while watching the movie- Pierce was a dick to him, but the rest of HYDRA seemed decently scared of him/deferential towards him. There is a very brief mention of some of the nastier implications of Bucky's programming in this, but I wanted to write something along the lines of Bucky as more autonomous, with Rumlow having a little too much fun as the Asset's handler. Thanks for reading!

The Winter Solider is well named. He sleeps in a tomb of perpetual winter, where the ice never melts and the cold never abates. At this point, the Soldier has gone almost a decade in stasis…nearly ten years without feeling the touch of sunlight on skin. It has been at least five wipes since he has heard the word “summer”. If you were to ask him what it meant, he would be at a loss.

When they pull him back into the land of the living, this time as always the cold clings to him. The deathly chill of cryofreeze remains glued in the insides of his veins, and every heartbeat feels like agony. His thoughts are slow, disoriented. Pain makes his world jagged and sharp, and he chokes out weak moans between gasps of warm air. Chaos surrounds him, the light burns and flashes of colors dance around his eyelids as he squeezes them closed. Sound is everywhere, loud and roaring and indistinguishable. He does not remember, but this is how it is every time. Birth is always painful.

He’s strapped down, injected with chemicals designed to relax his muscles and sharpen his mind. Slowly, the pain dissipates and the world becomes clearer. His heartbeat slows, and the primal fear of awakening trickles away until all that is left is simply The Asset.

There is a painfully bright light shone into his eyes, and he tries to blink it away. A hand comes to hold his face steady as another pair of hands press against his metal arm, checking it for any damage sustained during the freezing and thawing process.

The scientists are efficient to the point of negligent. Their touches are fleeting, and eye contact is strictly avoided. The Asset does not need to look them in the eyes to know the reason for their haste. He knows what the jerky motions mean; he can smell the increase in perspiration, hear the minute rise in their heartbeats. The Winter Soldier is well acquainted with markers of human fear.

They should be afraid. Even strapped down to a steel chair, bolted to the ground, he has already automatically calculated a dozen different ways he could kill each of them. At least six of those would take him under fifteen seconds.    

The scientists and technicians leave as quickly as they can, until it is only the black-suited HYDRA guards left behind. The Asset ignores them. He is the perfect blank slate; empty and unfeeling and ready to comply. He awaits his mission.

Finally, the thick metal door is opened to reveal a new man, and the HYDRA guards welcome his arrival with visible displays of deference.

“He’s prepped and ready, sir,” one of them says.

The new man moves toward the Soldier. He walks with the measured confidence of an athlete, and his footsteps barely make a sound. He is roughly middle-aged, with short dark hair and a face that looks like it would be equally likely to break into laughter as it would be to snarl out a violent profanity.

The new man pulls up a chair and sits down in front of the Asset. His eyes glitter with a reptilian curiosity, and his gaze flickers down the Soldier’s body, lingers on his chrome arm. “Hey buddy,” he says.

The Asset remains silent. Despite the familial tone and the air of authority, this man is not Secretary Pierce and therefore has no power over him.

“I’m Brock Rumlow, friend. Don’t expect you’ve heard of me?”

The Soldier turns his empty gaze towards Rumlow. “Where is Secretary Pierce?”

Rumlow’s lips curl up. He has the smile of a snake. “He’s away. You’re my responsibility now, solider. And for the duration of this mission, I’ll be acting as your handler.”

There is something oddly comforting in his voice, the Soldier reflects. The harshness of the accent is pleasing, and the Asset finds himself vaguely disappointed when the other man stops speaking. It takes him a few seconds to realize Rumlow is waiting for him to respond.

“Where is Secretary Pierce?” the Solider repeats.

A muscle in Rumlow’s jaw clenches and his eyes darken.   

“My instructions come from him directly,” the Asset says, dull eyes locking on Rumlow’s.

Rumlow grunts in annoyance, and then reaches back to pull a crumpled sheet of paper from his pocket. “Yeah, the guys in the lab coats figured you might be uncooperative.” He looks up and grins. “Luckily, I’ve been practicing my Russian." 

His Russian is thickly accented, but passable.

The final word is announced, and the Asset’s gaze grows even colder. His eyes are the dead blue of a frostbitten corpse. “готовы соблюдать”.

Rumlow’s smile becomes smugly satisfied. “Good boy,” he purrs.

* * *

 

They’ve almost arrived at their destination. The plane ride over was forgettable enough; they had used a private jet belonging to SHIELD and Rumlow had taken full advantage of the amenities. After downing a few too many airplane shots of whiskey, it hadn’t been long before Rumlow unceremoniously passed out. The Winter Solider had spent the remaining four hours cleaning his rifle and trying to ignore the shuddering turbulence outside of the small jet.

They touched down in a country currently in the throes of an especially dangerous drought. Rumlow, blearily stumbling out of the plane, had slurred out a few choice curses as the dry heat of the desert smacked into him.

He turned to the Soldier, “fuck this shit, man. For once, I would love it if our targets had decided to hide in Fiji or somethin’.”

Rumlow was already walking towards the rusty truck awaiting them, and didn’t seem to be expecting a response. The Solider offered none, and followed his handler impassively. In truth, he found himself enjoying the heat. Despite the intensity of it, the Solider realized he had missed the feeling of sunshine on his skin. Warmth was a foreign concept to him, but he found himself relishing the sensation of it nonetheless.

After an hour of bumpy terrain they finally pull up to the safehouse. Their driver unloads their luggage and departs with a quick salute towards Rumlow, who has adopted a vaguely green countenance.

“I think I’m gonna throw up,” he mutters, and then gestures to the bags. “Mind getting that shit?” The Asset silently complies. Inside the bags is enough survival gear and weaponry to supply a small army and he judges the contents to weigh approximately 117 kilos (he considers the bags again and adjusts his measurement slightly up, to 118).

He notices Rumlow has regained his smirk. “They sure made you strong,” the HYDRA agent whistles appreciatively. The Asset stares at his handler until the other man has the decency to avert his gaze. The Winter Soldier might not know what the word “summer” means, and he might’ve been wiped more times than the human brain can technically take, but he’s not _stupid_. He’s been well aware of Rumlow’s lingering glances and he’s equally well aware of the motivation behind them. It makes the Asset uncomfortable, as does the tightness in his pants when Rumlow flashes his wide, predatory grin. The Asset waits until the hardness in his cock has gone down, and then follows Rumlow inside.

* * *

 

Rumlow is on his second bottle of water, which the Asset personally believes is a wise choice considering his handler’s almost certain dehydration. Rumlow still looks slightly queasy, but a healthier color has returned to his skin. He finishes the bottle, tosses it to the side. The Soldier hands him a third.

Rumlow looks amused. “Is this poisoned?”

The Soldier frowns. “No.”

The other man smiles, and there’s a twinkle in his eyes that almost resembles genuine enjoyment. “I’m kidding, chief. It’s sweet that you want to spare me the shame of passing out from a massive hangover.” He winks. “If I did though, promise not to tell any of the STRIKE team boys? I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

The Solider nods automatically, and tries to resist the alien urge to share in conspiratorial laughter. He offers a smile instead, and his cheeks tighten uncomfortably with the movement. It’s been at least fifty years since he’s last smiled and it feels abnormal. There’s an odd buzz in his head, as well as an unusual warmth pooling in his stomach. He finds himself enjoying the sensation, and enjoying the way Rumlow’s eyes light up when the other man sees his smile. The Soldier decides to chalk up any symptoms of physical arousal to his own potential dehydration and opens a bottle of water for himself.

Rumlow’s grin becomes inhumanely wide. “You almost looked like a real boy for a second there.”

The Asset declines to respond and Rumlow shrugs and begins to read from a manila file.

After a while, Rumlow looks up. “Ready to be briefed on your mission, soldier?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Got a fugitive from HYDRA. Ex-agent, looking to sell SHIELD secrets to the highest bidder. Right now, intel suspects that bidder is a local warlord hoping to gain some leverage over the competition. The target is camping out in this inferno until someone retrieves his ass to bring him to his buyer. We aren’t entirely sure when the pick-up is, so you’ll have to be very quick and very precise.” Rumlow looks up and grimaces. “No fuck ups, or it’s my ass getting reamed by Pierce while you’re getting some nice beauty sleep in cryofreeze. Understood?”  

“Understood.”

“Good. Here are the coordinates. Pierce wants it to be long-distance, so I’m gonna suggest a sniper rifle over death by metal-arm punches.” Rumlow scowls as the Asset examines his arm in confusion. “That was a joke. I’m funny. Anyway, target’s name is Jimmy Woo. Ex-HYDRA, ex-SHIELD, part of the black-ops division.”

Rumlow hands him a picture, and the Asset memorizes his face with a perfectly programmed detachment. The Solider will bury a bullet in this man’s occipital lobe before he can witness his next sunrise. Jimmy Woo will never see the man that will kill him, and the Soldier will murder him as easily as another man might draw a breath of air. The Soldier does not think, or feel. The Soldier acts. A few seconds after the target becomes a former target, the Soldier wonders what the dull stabbing sensation in his gut means. Another man would know it as regret. Two minutes from now, the Soldier will forget experiencing it at all.

* * *

 

When the Asset rejoins Rumlow, his metal arm is stained with darkening blood from confirming the kill. Not that there had been any doubt; the Winter Soldier has never failed to complete a mission.

Rumlow greets him with a wide smile and a low whistle of approval. “Fuck man, they ain’t kidding when they call you the best.” He sounds almost awed.

The Winter Solider offers a curt nod of acknowledgement. Rumlow is eyeing him in a particularly hungry way, dark eyes raking down the Asset’s muscled form. The uncomfortable tightness is back, accompanied by an especially _insistent_ heat that pulses straight to his cock. He feels a flush of embarrassment in his cheeks and wonders if Rumlow notices.

Rumlow is already heading inside, beckoning for him to follow. He steps into the safehouse, obediently sits down when instructed. Rumlow pours some water onto a towel, and gestures at the Soldier’s arm. “You mind?”

The Soldier shakes his head, and shrugs out of his jacket. He stretches his arm out as Rumlow kneels in front of him and runs the towel across the bloodstains. When Rumlow finishes, he lets the towel fall to the ground and remains on his knees, his eyes still locked on the Soldier’s metal arm, marveling at it. He reaches out to touch it as if he can’t resist and mumbles, “That’s fucking beautiful.”

The Soldier has never had his arm described as beautiful before, nor had anyone stroke it with an almost worshipful touch, but he decides he likes this very much. Rumlow’s fingers are beginning to stray further then the arm; they flicker around his flesh-and-bone shoulder and briefly slide up the side of his neck.

The Soldier is unused to this type of physical contact, and moans out loud before he can stop himself. Rumlow seems both pleased and surprised, and glances down at the Soldier’s hard cock straining against his pants. Rumlow raises himself slightly, and his hand twists into the Asset’s hair, pushing his head down to meet Rumlow’s lips. The Soldier feels a rush of heat as the other man’s mouth connects with his, and his lips part as Rumlow’s tongue slips into his mouth, probing.

In a second, the Soldier _knows_ what he wants, and he shoves Rumlow back onto his knees as he rises and undoes his pants. “Suck my cock.”

Rumlow gives a playful smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I could probably _make_ you do anything I wanted, you know.”

The Soldier lets himself smile back at Rumlow, and for a brief second the man looks suitably unnerved.

Rumlow shrugs, and then a slow smile spreads across his lips again as he takes the Soldier’s cock into his hand and leisurely strokes it, before increasing the speed and force. He takes the Asset into his mouth, and then all of a sudden the Soldier thinks he remembers what summer is. Summer is warmth and bliss and carefree pleasure, summer is Rumlow’s tongue licking at his head even as his mouth bobs up and down along his shaft.

The Soldier moans, grabbing Rumlow’s head and guiding his motions deeper. The Soldier almost remembers something from long ago, an ancient memory of a blonde man’s lips wrapped around his cock…but that memory is too hazy and in _this_ moment Rumlow is doing things with his mouth that are making the perfectly programmed human weapon of HYDRA lose himself in pleasure.  

“Stroke yourself,” the Asset orders, and Rumlow obeys without ever faltering in his movements.

He hears Rumlow moan around his cock, and the Asset comes, sighing with release. Rumlow finishes a few seconds after, and stands. He presses an almost gentle kiss onto the Asset’s lips and smiles.

The Soldier thinks he wants to enjoy the moment further, he wants to lay down with Rumlow and savor the warmth of the other man’s body against his. He wants to kiss Rumlow, he wants Rumlow to remind him of summer and all the other things he has forgotten. He wants to feel whole again, and he wants to feel so warm and content that he can forget the bleak cold of cryofreeze.

The Asset does none of those things. The extraction team is on their way already, and he knows that his trip will end in a wipe and a return to cryo and the endless winter it offers. Instead, he silently runs a hand down Rumlow’s face, trying to commit it to memory.             


End file.
